The Mommy Wish

by Pamela Browning

  He carried her harp and she remained thoughtful all the way to the Plumosa Hotel. Barriers had fallen this evening, and the thing was, she felt happy about it. Happy and scared and curious all at the same time, because she was ambivalent about where all this was going.

  A couple of weeks ago, she wasn’t at all interested in Eric Norvald. But as he had said, life’s changes were the only thing that was predictable. And she had an idea that she was in for a big change.

  Chapter Ten

  Eric couldn’t take his eyes off Molly as she walked sedately to the stool in the middle of the stage at the Blossom Cabaret. The spotlight sparked golden glints in her hair, glimmered on her simple earrings, made her skin seem especially soft and touchable. He found himself clenching his hands, then felt embarrassed and glanced at the people sitting on either side of him to see if they’d noticed. They hadn’t. They were captivated by the sight of Molly Kate McBryde, and they were totally in her thrall when she started to sing.

  She was stunning; that was the only word that could adequately describe her. Even when she was only talking her face was more animated than most, but when she sang, she managed to communicate with her eyes all the emotion that the song was meant to convey. If he hadn’t been mesmerized by her face, Eric would have found himself captivated by the way her fingers evoked such melodic sounds from that harp. Or he might have concentrated on the curve of her legs, accentuated by the filmy skirt she wore. Whatever, there was no way he could look away.

  She offered a sweet ballad at first, a touching song of innocence. She managed to seem innocent herself while she sang it. She followed that one with a rousing, rollicking jig that fluted up and down the scale, and for a few moments she was a vixen, a wench, a slatternly Irish maid, each in turn. This was all dramatics, reinforced again when she broke into the familiar song of sweet Molly Malone, who wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets wide and narrow, selling cockles and mussels, alive alive-o. At the end of the song, which in Eric’s experience was seldom sung in its entirety, Molly Malone was dead of a fever from which none could save her. By the time she had finished, Eric was sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

  The applause was thunderous, and it seemed to go on for a long time after she took her leave. Finally Molly, his Molly, was pushed out of the wings and walked to the center of the stage again. There were a few whistles from the back of the room, and more clapping. She strummed her harp once, and everything became quiet.

  “I wasn’t exactly prepared,” she said. “I can repeat one of the songs from last week if you like.”

  If the stomping and whistling was any indication, they did like. She began to play the Irish rebel song, and soon people began to sway in their seats and sing along with her. Eric was surprised that so many knew the words, but before long he was singing, too. He knew all too well that he couldn’t carry a tune. But he wanted to join in and be part of the mood that Molly had created in this room.

  When she finished, she shook her hair back off her face, bowed, shot him a wry glance that seemed to say “I have no idea why they like me so much” and disappeared offstage.

  He stood and pushed past the other people sitting in his row, then loped to the back and down a side aisle with a door leading outside. When he burst into the cool, fresh air, he made up his mind that they would take the long way home, even before he spotted Molly stepping out the stage door. She cradled her harp close to her body with both hands, looking for all the world like a little girl.

  He walked up to her and cupped his hands around her face. “That was fantastic, Molly,” he told her. “You had the crowd in the palm of your hand.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Who had any idea they’d go for Irish folk music?” she said happily. Her tone held a note of perplexity, and it was all he could do not to kiss her.

  “I did,” he said succinctly, letting his hands drop away. He appropriated the harp case from her, and they started down the street. After a moment, he reached over and took her hand. She didn’t pull away. Instead she moved closer to him, did a funny little skip so that she’d catch up with his long stride and grinned up at him.

  “Thanks for your confidence,” she said.

  “Last time you played for them, they liked you,” he pointed out.

  “I thought that was a fluke. Anyway, how do you know they liked me?” She blinked up at him, and he cut his eyes away. He’d forgotten that he’d never mentioned he’d been in the audience the first night she’d performed.

  “I, um, was in the audience that night,” he said uncomfortably.

  “I saw someone who resembled you sneaking out at the end,” she said in a faintly accusatory tone.

  “I wasn’t sneaking,” he said in his own defense. “I had to get back to the marina.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t have left Phoebe alone,” she said. “How’d you manage to get away in the first place?”

  “Micki came over from her boat for an hour. Phoebe was already asleep, and Micki didn’t mind watching her own favorite TV program on Fiona while I went out.”

  “Why didn’t you ever mention that you’d been there?” Molly asked. “You should have said something.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d have been happy about it.” He hadn’t realized he was walking faster again and Molly performed that little hitch-step again to catch up. He slowed down accordingly.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t. On the other hand, I might have wanted a critique.”

  “Do you expect one now?”

  “No. I feel like Sally Field after she won her Academy Award for best actress—‘You like me. You really like me.’” She laughed.

  “For your information, you were fantastic both times. Your voice, your considerable onstage presence, your choice of songs, the way you looked…”

  She dropped his hand, her dismay evident. “They liked me for the way I looked? Not for my music?”

  “Both.” He caught her sending him a sidelong glance, assessing his sincerity.

  By this time they were walking parallel to the wide glass enclosure housing the indoor pool at the hotel. A door was ajar, swinging gently in the breeze, hitting with a light thunk! before the wind caught it and slammed it back against the wall.

  “Isn’t there a night watchman?” he wondered aloud.

  “Selena told me that because of budget limitations, they no longer have one. Greensea Springs is the kind of place where they don’t worry about vandalism.”

  “In that case, we’d better make sure that door is closed,” he told her.

  They made their way along the flagstone path, sheltered by the twisted oaks on either side, and the long streamers of Spanish moss. When they reached the door, Eric halted. “Shhh,” he said. “We don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  “We’d better make sure nobody’s in there,” Molly whispered.

  “I’ll take a peek.” He handed her the harp case and stepped inside the pool house. He could hear the water lapping at the tile sides of the pool and a steady rush of the waterfall into the culvert that channeled it away. Moonlight cast dappled shadows from the Spanish moss and tree branches outside, lending the place an exotic, otherworldly ambience.

  “I don’t see anyone,” he said, his voice reverberating against the tile walls. “If you can get past the sulfur smell, it’s a neat place to be.”

  Molly slipped in beside him. She stood close in the tiny vestibule, her harp crowding them. “They used to have moonlight swims here in the old days,” she said, still whispering, though it wasn’t necessary. “See the candleholders on the pillars? I can imagine how it must have been when there were big fat candles guttering down to the end, shining on the faces and bodies of the people.”

  “You know,” he said, assessing her mood, “I bet that would be fun. To swim here at night, I mean.”

  She darted a glance at his face. “You’re saying we should do that? Now?”

  “When will there be a better time?” he said, smiling down at her bemuse
d expression.

  She plucked at the gauzy layers of her dress. “I’m not exactly prepared,” she said wryly.

  “We’ll go back to Fiona, get swimsuits and towels.” He pulled her out the door by the hand, the harp case hitting against their knees. He took it from her and kept going.

  “Eric, wait!” she said, lagging behind, but she was laughing. “We’re not supposed to go in there.”

  “Sometimes it’s a good idea to take a chance, don’t you think?” he asked impishly, mimicking what she’d said at dinner.

  “This isn’t what I meant,” she said.

  Her voice now had a breathless quality, which he found incredibly sexy. At the dock, they made it past the marina office and the attached laundry room without attracting the attention of the lone man who sat there reading a magazine as he waited for his clothes to dry.

  “Maybe we should ask permission to swim there,” Molly said on the way down the dock.

  “Of whom?” he asked. They reached Fiona, and he slung Molly’s harp case over the side of the boat. He boarded first, then gave her a hand up the stairs. “You put on your swimsuit, and I’ll snag a few towels. Bring a wrap to wear back to the boat—you might be cold after swimming in that warm water.”

  “I—”

  Whatever else she might have said, he didn’t hear. He wasn’t in a mood to accept no for an answer, and after years of responsible fatherhood, he was ready to cut loose and enjoy being alone with a beautiful woman.

  THE STREETS WERE ALMOST AS DESERTED as before, but when they crept back into the pool enclosure at the hotel like the two miscreants that they were, Molly breathed a sigh of relief. No one had seen them, she was sure of it.

  Eric moved ahead of her while she dropped their towels on a nearby wicker chaise. He was a shadow against the large darker expanse of the pool.

  She walked across the floor, the cold tile making her shiver. Eric reached for her as she approached, his arm going around her waist to pull her close. She didn’t mind the gesture, even welcomed it.

  “There’s a step right in front of you, then another one. I already tried it.”

  Steam billowed up from the water, a swirl of mist that bound them together in this big, echoing room. It shimmered in the moonlight, caught the moonbeams and spun them into pure silver. She held her breath, stunned by the ethereal beauty of this place.

  She dunked one foot into the water, was grateful for its warmth, found the next step and the next. Soon she was standing up to her chest in warm water; it eddied around her like skeins of silk. Eric stood beside her, his features beginning to come together now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim silvery light. His hair was frosted with water droplets, his eyes luminous and dark-centered. She felt buoyant, light on her feet. She sank into the water up to her neck, her hair fanning out like sea grass around her shoulders.

  Eric leaned back and began a slow backstroke, even and methodical but lyrical in its grace, toward the far end of the pool. His feet disappeared in a froth of white bubbles, the hair on his chest curled and matted, his tanned arms stretched out and back, out and back, in steady rhythm. She let the water buoy her up, floating on his wake.

  “Come to this end,” he said. “There’s a platform here with seats in the water, like a hot tub.”

  She swam toward him, and when she came to where he was sitting, the sight of him engendered an urging that defied logic. He pulled Molly over the edge of the raised section, his grip firm. She felt for the seat at the back of her knees and sank onto it, wishing that the steam would clear her head, make her sensible. In fact, it did just the opposite—made her thinking grow increasingly fuzzy.

  “Don’t sit so far away,” Eric said, and his face loomed closer in the hazy light. She felt his arm glide against hers, and despite the warmth of the water, a chill shivered up her backbone with an energy that made her want him to touch her again.

  “I’m not sure we should be doing this,” she murmured as his arm curved around her shoulders, drawing her snug against him. Their faces were faint reflections in the dark water, rippling away into the shadows. His cheek grazed hers, and his body sent little eddies of water shimmering around them. She closed her eyes, totally relaxed by the warmth.

  Eric’s hand moved upward to cup her face. His eyes searched hers, delved deep inside where she never let anyone go. She didn’t look away. She was totally absorbed, caught up in his presence.

  “Molly,” he said, and she stopped trying to keep a distance between them and floated into his embrace. He was warm and wet beneath the water, his long limbs eager to gather her in. She gave in to it.

  He kissed her, but this time it wasn’t with the haste of their public kiss at the beach. Now he took his time, his lips sure and knowing, the mood intense. There was nothing shy about his kisses, and he was thorough and masterful. Molly offered her lips to him without hesitation, caught up in the excitement and anticipation of the moment.

  He pressed her back against the seat, and she sighed as his hands cradled her breasts. His fingers slipped inside her bra, and she felt her nipples draw into hard points against his palms. She was becoming liquid inside, melting in the warmth of the pool and the heat from his body.

  His fingers coaxed the most exquisite sensations, and his breathing was soft in her ear. He moaned, or was it her name on his lips? She didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was being in his arms and giving in to these moments of exquisite pleasure.

  “Queen Molly Kate McBryde,” he said gently and teasingly, a smile in his voice. “Who ever would have thought?”

  “I’m a goddess,” she reminded him unsteadily. “Remember?”

  “I want more, sweet Molly.”

  She was silent, every cell of her body attuned to his.

  “We’d better go back to the boat. I didn’t bring any protection.”

  “Eric—”

  “You can still say no. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  She knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t, back out now. She slipped over the side of the platform, submerged for a moment in the pool and came up with her hair sleek and streaming. A fleeting thought occurred to her: inserting distance between them might bring her to her senses, would perhaps give her a chance to think. But now it was clear to her that making love with this man was what she truly wanted. In the short time that they’d known each other she had grown to like him, to respect him and understand him. Desiring him wasn’t supposed to be part of the package, but now, as he caught her to him so that the length of their bodies pressed together underwater, she admitted that she had desired him more than she would have thought possible in the early days of their acquaintance.

  He kissed her with a passion that left her weak. She gazed deep into his eyes, saw affection there, and respect. Without a word she ducked underwater and began to swim toward the other side of the pool, then burst up for air in the shallow area near the steps.

  She climbed up and began to dry herself, Eric close behind her. Without speaking, they gathered their belongings and crept out of the glass enclosure. Eric pulled the door securely shut behind them.

  The air seemed cold, invigorating. Eric, looking conspiratorial, grabbed her hand and began to run. This was different from her early-morning jogging on the path near Lake Michigan after work, and it took her a few moments to learn to keep stride with him. Her breathing picked up, her heart beat stronger, and she felt as if they were flying with the wind as their feet pounded the shell-rock path past the playground, past the shallow pond, past the silent sentinel oaks with their beards of trailing moss. Soon they were crossing the road in front of the marina.

  Eric shot her a warning look and placed a cautionary finger to his lips as they passed the laundry room, where the single male occupant now had his nose buried in a newspaper. They tiptoed past, still holding hands, still not speaking, and Molly felt like giggling as they crouched to pass Micki’s catamaran. The square eye of the TV was visible through the flimsy
curtains, and Micki was watching it.

  No other occupants of the marina were in evidence, no dog walkers, no strollers enjoying the night air or the moonlight. She and Eric reached Fiona without seeing anyone and, still hand in hand, climbed aboard.

  The cockpit was dark, shrouded by the lowered side curtains whose panels blurred the surrounding boats and lights into a soft panoply of colors. She was still breathing hard when Eric circled his arms around her and drew her close so that she could hear their pounding hearts beating in the same rhythm. After a few moments, when a new kind of breathing took over, he made his way down the ladder and steadied it while she followed.

  The boat rocked gently on the waves, and the one lamp that they had left lit in the salon swayed overhead. Eric extinguished it, leaving the red inside running lights as the only illumination.

  “Your place or mine?” he asked, his voice rumbling in her ear.

  “Mine,” she murmured, dropping her towel. Her swimsuit only required a couple of tugs to release, and it fell away, leaving her shivering against him.

  He swung her up into his arms, his gaze catching and holding hers. “Now that I’ve won the goddess, I shall bear her away in triumph,” he said with mock boastfulness, making her laugh as he carried her to her stateroom.

  After he set her carefully on the bed, he lay down beside her, elevated himself on one elbow and smiled down at her. His even features were dappled with pale iridescent light shining through the stained-glass window over the bed. In the distance, a muted foghorn sounded.

  “Eric,” she breathed, and he slid over her, his belly to hers. They needed only one preliminary to make sure they were safe, and then she was gasping, aware only of her own wetness, hot and welcoming, and the ease of their joining. She braced herself against him as he drove deeply inside, establishing a frenzied rhythm that she matched stroke for stroke. His face was a dark blur, his eyes two burning coals in the dim light.